


ain't gonna stop lovin' you (til the candle burns out)

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4895767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequence of events viewed through the eyes of England's fly-halves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 26th September 2015

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'I Can Take It from There' by Chris Young.
> 
> This essentially stemmed from a conversation I had with my friend discussing if we were Team Farrell or Team Ford. My friend said 'I bet Owen would be Team Ford, though.' And thus this story was born.
> 
> I own nothing mentioned in this story (unfortunately). If you are or know one of the people mentioned here, please click on the red x in the top right corner of the screen and have a nice day!

They lose. To Wales. From a ten-point lead. It sucks, and this is about the time when Owen would usually go and self-implode in his room. But George is here now, and he knows for a fact that George will be taking this harder than he is. So, after the agonising captain's speech in the locker room and the torturous bus ride back to Pennyhill Park, Owen dumps his kit in his room and heads straight to his boyfriend.

He knocks nervously on the door, waiting for it to open. Eventually it does, and Owen can barely wait for a second before enveloping George into his arms like he did when they were fifteen. Even in his current wretched state, the younger man has the sense to drage them out of the corridor and back into the room before anybody notices them. They hug fiercely for a minute, sharing the pain of losing such an important match in such a dismal manner.

Then George pulls Owen back onto the bed, so they are curled tightly together. He sniffs quietly and wriggles his head into the space between their arms. They lie there for several moments, without speaking, enjoying the familiar touch after so long spent at a distance.

"You did it, you know," George whispers hollowly. "You proved to everyone that you were the right choice for 10. I'm just some jumped-up kid - one that got a break he never deserved." Owen squeezes him even closer.  
"That's not true, Georgie. You played brilliantly against Fiji - and throughout the Six Nations. Anyway, we made the decision to take the lineout as a team. It wasn't - isn't your fault." Owen presses his face into George's hair and murmurs, "We can tell them. About us. If it would take some of the pressure off you."

George twists around then, tear-stained cheeks facing his boyfriend. "You really mean it?" He asks, lips curving upwards in the barest hint of a smile. Owen nods solemnly, and gently kisses George's lips.  
"You know I do. We've kept this hidden long enough."  
"Thank you, Owen." George returns. "Tomorrow?" He adds hopefully.  
Owen shrugs. "Of course." George reaches up for another kiss, then another, and another, and Owen suddenly remembers the considerable advantages of not having roommates. He rolls on top of George and deepens the kiss, taking his time, appreciating the younger man's eyes, lips, hair - his everything, really.

And that's where the morning finds them, sprawled out over each other, smiling sleepily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm Team Ford, if you were wondering.)


	2. 31st May 2015

This match is important. It's so important that George turned down Owen's offer of dinner the night before in favour of a team bonding session at their hotel. This is Bath's first Premiership final in eleven years, and he won't jeopardise their chances by running off on a date with his opposite number for a million pounds. George is so serious about the team that he made Owen promise that rugby had to come before their relationship - every time. Luckily, Owen hadn't objected, as it was one of his major conditions too.

So they don't see each other at all for the forty-eight hours leading up to the match. They text hourly and send the customary good luck messages, but communication cuts off as the teams board the coaches to drive to Twickenham. They both know that this is no time to be fooling around. The players warm up on the pitch, then head back to the locker rooms for one last team talk.

Finally, it's time for the match to begin. George takes the kick and then everything becomes a blur. Bath are 25-3 down at halftime, and George can't help but feel proud of Owen and his beautiful try, if not slightly envious too. A few minutes later, back on the field, George is passed the ball and two colossal Saracens forwards are bearing down on him. He panics, and does the only thing that comes naturally to him; he kicks the ball straight to Owen. Unfortunately, he can already imagine the teasing he'll get for that - and Owen's smirky grin in particular.

Crushingly, for all their efforts, Bath lose 26-18. George is happy for the Saracens, he really is, but when they lift the trophy, he feels a desperate ache in his chest for what might have been. They perform the obligatory handshakes, and George is chastising Owen for the blood that has dried from his eye to his shoulder and on to his muddy white shirt, when he notices the TV camera trained on them. He squeezes Owen's hand briefly and slips away, into the the crowd of milling officials and players. The abrupt parting hurts, but it isn't worth the speculation.

Owen doesn't call that night. George realises that he probably wouldn't have if the situation was reversed, but still. He's tired of waiting by noon the next day, so he texts Owen a desultory _Congratulations again. Call me?_ He knows how needy it - he - sounds, but right now he couldn't care less. Owen doesn't reply within six hours, so he ups the ante. He tweets _Good game @saracens @owen_faz_ , followed immediately afterwards by _@owen_faz call me_. George knows how an outside could - and most likely will - interpret that, but it's technically Owen's fault for not picking up - or even texting back.

By the time he's back in Bath the next day, several newspapers and blogs have published articles debating the 'hidden depths' of his tweet. George smirks a bit at that - how can a three-word message have hidden depths when there's barely enough material for visible ones? - but the next article makes his heart skip a beat. The headline reads 'Are Star Rugby Players Hiding BIG SECRET?' Really, the dubious capitalisation should have allayed his fears. However, the opening paragraph is startlingly accurate in its assumptions: 'England's leading fly-halves, Owen Farrell and George Ford, have become noticeably closer over the last two years. We have unpicked the story from its opening scenes all the way up to yesterday's _@owen_faz call me_ tweet. Read on to find out more.'

Accompanying the article is a grainy but clearly staged photo of two men in white rugby shirts kissing. George giggles at the ridiculousness of the shot - six inches may be a pretty noticeable height difference, but it definitely isn't that noticeable. He thinks about sending the link to Owen, but then he remembers the bizarre radio silence. He saves the link anyway.

George goes for a run around the park, but his heart isn't really in it, and he's still aching from the game, so he decides to call it a day after forty minutes. Suddenly, his phone starts vibrating. George sits down on a nearby bench and answers the call. He smiles when he hears Owen's sleepy voice.  
"Hey, Georgie, how're you doing?" His voice is still slurred. George wonders how much he's had to drink - and when he even got home.  
"I'm fine, thank you. You don't sound too great yourself, though."  
Owen snorts. "I'm incredibly great, I'll have you know. Anyway," his voice drops down a tone, "you clearly think that too, so it must be true."  
George snickers before replying. "How drunk are you, Owen?"

"Too drunk." Owen suddenly sounds exhausted. "I kept looking round and expecting to see you next to me. I don't want to have to go through that again. Winning without you doesn't feel like winning at all." George feels unexpected tears springing up in his eyes, but scrubs them away. He is in public, after all.   
"How abut the World Cup? We'll win that together, and celebrate together, and I won't ever have to leave your side."

Owen sniffs loudly. "Yeah. We'll win the World Cup. Easy, right?" George smiles fondly and says,  
"I have to go now. Get some sleep. Drink some water. I love you."

He doesn't have to wait long to hear Owen's soft, "I love you more."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owen really did look terrible after this game - http://e0.365dm.com/15/05/768x576/OwenFarrell_3309875.jpg?20150530181253


	3. 3rd October 2015

So, that's it. England are going to be eaten alive by the piranhas of the pool of death. George is in pieces, sitting in the showers and crying softly, shoulders shaking. But Owen is so, so much worse. He's still on one of the exercise bikes, pedalling hard forty minutes after the humiliation had ended. His face is an unmoving mask; the only sign of any emotion at all is the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of his fingers. George knows that he should be there to talk him out of it, but right now, he doesn't have the energy to even move.

Eventually, Owen walks into the showers and slumps down next to his boyfriend. They fumble for each other's hands and George rests his head on the older man's shoulders.  
"I really thought we could do it, you know. After the Six Nations, and then you came back, and . . . " George trails off, a fresh wave of tears finishing the sentence for him. Owen pulls him tight against his chest, not caring that they're both naked and in a relatively public place. If it's the end of the world - and it really feels like it is - you should be allowed to show someone you love them, or there isn't any point in surviving.

They sit in silence, touching in as many places as can be decent when naked and in a locker room full of macho rugby players. George starts to shiver after five minutes of this, so Owen knows it's time to face the music. He hauls himself up, defeat weighing him down, and then helps George up. They shuffle slowly into the locker room to see yet more of the same exhausted, defeated, shell-shocked faces. Everybody seems to be moving in slow motion - if they're moving at all.

Owen walks with George to their stalls and hands him a towel. Even in their dejected state, they are still packed and on the bus a full ten minutes before anybody else. Owen makes good use of the time, letting George lean back on his chest and drift into sleep. Normally, they would be teased relentlessly by the team for their lack of personal boundaries, but tonight no one can drum up the energy to even speak.

They arrive at Pennyhill Park after an uncomfortably silent bus ride. Owen reluctantly wakes George and leads him to their room. The younger man is still half asleep and dazed as Owen unpacks their kit and puts it into piles.  
"Owen?" George whispers. It's the first word he's spoken since the showers. "Are you okay?"  
He shrugs. "I'll get over it. It was mainly my fault that we lost - I just have to deal with it by myself." George sits up abruptly and Owen inwardly curses his choice of words. He can practically hear the words 'by myself' setting off alarm bells in George's mind.  
"Owen?" George repeats, his voice small and tense. "Are you breaking up with me?"

Owen's heart sinks. The confident shell has been utterly obliterated, revealing the fragile teenager George had once been. Owen had worked so hard to help George appreciate himself - all his quirks and habits - but it's all been destroyed by one rugby match and two little words.  
"George, that's not what I meant." He bites down the 'You know it isn't.' that's threatening to break loose. George doesn't know that. It's not his fault that Owen doesn't think before he speaks. "I'm not breaking up with you. Not now, not ever. Okay?" George nods once, a tiny jerk of his head. It's not much, but it's a move in the right direction and Owen will take it.

But it's when George locks himself in the bathroom for an hour and refuses to come out that Owen knows that this is going to be a one step forward, two steps back situation. It took him almost a year to help George to stop hurting himself the first time round. Who knows how long it will take this time? They won't even be within a hundred miles of each other once the season starts again. Then it hits him. He knows what he needs to do if he wants to help George.

In the morning, the younger man is so quiet that you would be forgiven for thinking that he wasn't even in the room. His choice of long sleeves is particularly striking, given that it's a bizarrely warm 22C outside and everyone else is wearing T-shirts. George picks at his food, only eating when Owen fixes an excessively fierce glare on him. Owen has never known his get this low, and he knows that drastic action is definitely needed - the sooner, the better.

He talks to his dad while George is in a meeting with Stuart, and then they call Mike Ford together to ask for his views on the matter. Mike sounds equally concerned and gives them permission to do whatever they need to help his son. He seems especially keen on Owen's plan A, and agrees that sooner rather than later is better in this situation. To put his plan into action, Owen takes George, JJ, Anthony, Ben and Sam to the golf course after lunch. He's already briefed the boys on what is going to happen, so they are fully prepared. 

They split into teams; Owen, George and Ben versus the trio of Bath players. It's Ben's turn, and when he accidentally-on-purpose hits the ball into a rather magnificent patch of shrubbery and wanders off to look for it, Owen knows that the time is right. He turns to George and takes his hands. They're standing under a spreading oak tree and the sun is shining on the lake. Owen couldn't have made it look more perfect if he'd tried.

"George," he starts nervously, "I love you. You know that, don't you?" The other man nods mutely. "We've known each other for ten years now. That's a really long time and it's safe to say that we know everything about each other - the good and the bad. We've been through the best and worst of times together." George smiles wryly and Owen takes this as a sign that his plan is working. "I love you, George, and everything about you. The concentration on you face when you kick, how you hate mornings, the way you tackle guys who are literally a foot taller than you, your loyalty to your team . . . I could go on. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I don't ever want to lose you, and . . . " He bends down on one knee, takes the little black box out of his pocket and opens it. 

"George Thomas Ford, will you marry me?"

George is crying, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. Owen thinks that he probably is too. The younger man nods furiously and Owen slides the simple ring onto his finger. Then he's standing up and wrapping his arms around George and kissing him like they're the only two people left in the universe, and he couldn't be happier. They're together, Farrell and Ford, the way it's meant to be, now and forever.


End file.
